


Under the Skin

by wynnebat



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Scarification, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, not graphic scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where one's scars will appear on their soulmate's body, Oliver has his name and phone number etched into his skin at age eighteen. Connor responds with the number of a pizza place two states away from his hometown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Skin

**Author's Note:**

> For the soulmates square of my Trope Bingo card. I have no claim to the scarification+soulmates+name&number idea; I first encountered it on a comm over on Dreamwidth and fell in love at first sight.

There are seven billion people in the world.

Divide that by half for the gender that Connor has no interest in fucking and that's three and a half billion. Divide by another half to get the under eighteens and over-forties out of the way, and that's nearly two billion. Take one tenth of that because Connor's vain, and that's still thousands upon thousands of people he could fuck.

One of them's probably his soulmate. He's pretty sure his soulmate's a good fuck, because the world's fair like that, but otherwise, Connor has no interest in lasting emotional attachment.

In his better days, he hopes his soulmate also never wants to meet, and just wants to spend the rest of his life free and unattached. But the faded pale words on his skin call him a liar, and the scars he made right below them call him an asshole. Connor's fine with that, even if his conscience prickles on occasion.

But the first time Connor meets Oliver, he isn't thinking about soulmates. He's not even thinking about men, not really, not in any sexual way. Michaela's smug smile echoes in his head, taunting him through his whole walk into the bar attached to Kaufman's building. She thought of something that hadn't been even a speck in Connor's brain. She discredited the prosecution's main witness. And, she's going to get Keating's trophy. Connor needs to step up his game.

The first person he turns to in the bar's taken. The second's a last resort. The third doesn't seem to be interested in men (and isn't that a shame). But the fourth...

Connor snags two drinks from the barman and sidles up.

"Hey," he says, grinning charmingly and handing him a drink. "Connor Walsh, from down the street."

Number four is cute, in a nerdy sort of way. He doesn't need to be attractive—Connor would flirt with him anyway, for the case—but it's a plus.

"Oliver Hampton," the man replies. "I work just upstairs. For Kaufman. But not directly. I'm in IT."

Connor's brain freezes. Just for a moment, though, because Connor's damn good at his job. If thinking on the spot were an issue for him, he wouldn't be trying to become a lawyer. Still, he'd always thought he'd meet his soulmate at a club. (The best possible scenario: they sleep together, realize they're soul mates in the morning, laugh it off, and go their separate ways.)

Still, the moment's enough for Oliver—whose name is permanently etched into Connor's upper arm, who's an optimist who actually believes in soul mates, who doesn't seem to be getting laid on a regular basis—to add, "Sorry, I'm nervous. I don't know if you've ever noticed it, but you're really hot."

It's gratifying to know his soulmate has good taste, Connor decides. He's been told he's hot countless times, but coming from this man, it feels good. Right. Obviously, this man's handsome eyes have driven him temporarily insane.

Connor wants to leave, desperately. He's not fond of irrational emotion, especially when it comes in a soulmate-adjacent form. He's fond of lust. The feeling of seeing someone he'd fuck, the pleasure of seducing them, the anticipation of sex—there's nothing wrong with lust. But the thought of that lust turning into love behind his back raises his hackles faster than anything.

The only problem is the case, and Connor wants to succeed more than he wants to leave. In any case, his soul mate isn't hot enough to Stockholm Syndrome him into love in one day. He'll get what he wants, and then he'll leave.

"It's not really me I'm noticing right now," Connor tells his soulmate, staring right into his eyes in a challenge that Oliver's blessedly unaware of. "But... you work for Kaufman? What's that like? I bet he's a hardass."

.

Connor's soulmate is unexpectedly easy to seduce into hacking his boss' emails. Maybe it's an opposites attract sort of thing; maybe Oliver enjoys being seduced as much as Connor enjoys seducing. As he leans against Oliver's table, watching him hack in mild fascination (and anticipation of getting one up on his competition), he wonders what it would be like to get Oliver as well as his data. If Oliver's body is as attractive as his brain; if his moans as enticingly as Connor thinks he might.

He's always wondered what his other half looked like. Now he knows, and it's not enough.

It has to be, though, because even in the dark, there's no way Oliver won't notice the words carved into their arms, in exactly the same spots. He'll feel his own name and phone number etched into Connor's skin; he'll notice the pizza place advice Connor gave him, too.

Putting the thoughts out of his mind, Connor wonders, "Was he really such a bad boss?"

Oliver glances at him, more quickly than any of his previous looks. He's busy with coding again soon, but still explains, "I've fantasized about him dropping dead at least once a workday. You're not supposed to speak ill of the dead—and he's close enough to that now—but he was a bigot and an asshole. I can deal with the bigot part, but he made everyone's lives hell. I don't really mind going through his emails."

Connor's vaguely aware of the fact that ruthlessness isn't actually supposed to turn him on. His hand is halfway to Oliver's shoulder before his thoughts catch up, and he runs his hand appreciatively along Oliver's arm. "You're a catch," he says, hoping the strange feeling in his chest doesn't sink through.

"I wish," Oliver replies. Once the printer feeds out a document, he moves to give it to Connor.

Connor ignores it in favor of kissing him like he's wanted to do all night, hot and dirty and half infatuated already. Too soon, Connor pulls back, releasing the hold his hands got on Oliver's now-wrinkled shirt. "You are," he tells him, a bit breathless. But when Oliver leans in for another kiss, Connor shakes his head. "I'm... I'm just not..."

_I've got your name on my arm, and I'd really rather you didn't see it, thanks._

_I'm not who you want._

_(I'm an idiot.)_

"Are you waiting for your soulmate?"

Slowly, Connor shakes his head. The lie would be too much, even for him. He's never waited for someone in his life; monogamy and soulmates are for other people, he's always thought. He still does. Connor doesn't want forever with this man. He just wants him, in a strange, desperate way that he's never felt before. This man may be his soulmate, but he's also competent and handsome and mad at the world in ways Connor's felt so many times before. He's a little bit perfect, and that's terrifying.

"No, but I just got out of a long-term relationship. I'm still not over him," Connor says through his teeth.

Oliver's more sympathetic than Connor would be in this situation ( _I can make you forget his name_ has rolled off Connor's lips before). "Do you want me to hack his emails, too?"

"Nah, all you'd get is a bunch of porn. I have enough of that myself." And Connor could leave now. He has everything he needs. Oliver doesn't even expect him to stay, his expression a portrait in resigned acceptance. But the thought that Oliver doesn't believe him, that he thinks he's just being let down easily, leads Connor to say, "We could do the friend thing, though."

"I'd like that," Oliver replies, the beginning of a smile on his lips.

.

Connor made his first friend in elementary school. Jack was cute, friendly, and always good for math homework. He met the minimum requirement of playdates until Jack eventually found a best friend kind of friend, and then he moved on to Anthony. Suffice to say, Connor doesn't know how to be a friend. Still, he adapts.

He thinks of it like dating (which he's also not very good at), just without the sex. Three months of friendly dinners and friendly flirting and friendly watching TV on the couch together later, Connor's had enough of friendship. It's maddening. It's driving him crazy.

"You don't ever talk about soulmates," Oliver remarks one day as they watch his favorite show on the couch.

Connor shrugs. "They're boring. What do I care about soulmates when I've got you right here?"

"That's sweet. But I don't know anything about yours. You've heard my sob story—"

Connor's heart skips a beat, because, yeah, he'd heard about the asshole who'd written the number of a pizza place instead of his name. He'd heard about how Oliver had been so excited to get a quick reply. It meant his soul mate wasn't younger than him, or had really lenient parents; most didn't approve of scarring their skin deliberately before age eighteen. (In reality, Connor is two years younger, and had stolen his older sister's self-scarring kit.) Oliver called the number with his heart in his breath, then called it again, thinking he'd gotten it wrong. ( _Ronald's Pizzeria, how would you like your pizza?_ was Oliver's least favorite phrase. Going by the anguished, angry look on his friend's face, it quickly became Connor's, too.) And that was it. Oliver's optimism in soulmates took a swan dive, and he didn't look forward to accidentally meeting him sometime during his life, as many people did.

"—what's yours? Did he not reply?"

That's a thing that happens, sometimes.

"He wrote first, actually," Connor eventually says. It's one of the only times in his life that he can't meet someone's eyes, but he forces himself to look at the man who's quickly become a friend. "It wasn't a good idea."

"Yeah?" Oliver says, and it's not even judgmental, for all that it echoes his own situation.

Someone really fucked up their match, Connor thinks, because he deserves an asshole like himself, not Oliver.

"You could still try," Oliver offers. "I mean— You were happy with Aiden. You could be happy with someone again."

Swallowing, Connor says, "It's not that I don't believe in soulmates. I just, I figured he wasn't interested in anything, either."

"Wasn't?"

"Met him for the first time this year," Connor says, staring into Oliver's dark eyes. He thinks he's an idiot, but he's also sick of this waiting, this slow realization that he never actually wanted to leave. They're soulmates for a reason; even if he never finds out why, he wants this. Connor's throat is dry as he says, "I offered him a martini at a bar and fell into his life and—"

"Get out."

"Oliver—"

"What the fuck, Connor? Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't lie about this."

There's none of the understanding left in Oliver's gaze as he says, "Leave. I— I can't even think with you here."

Connor nods.

.

Connor's an anomaly, in a world where everyone over a certain age has at least a couple visible scars. Most don't mean to be, but after a lifetime, words and symbols creep down one's skin. Analise has _I love you_ 's in handwriting that isn't Sam's down to the tips of her fingers; Sam has a jagged bullet scar on his knee; Laurel has a Harvard chant drunkenly etched onto her neck and shoulders, never entirely hidden; Michaela has sloppy, childish hearts down her cheeks, from a boy who never got the chance to grow up. Soulmates don't always mean happiness, but most people at least try.

The first time Connor buys his own self-scarring kit, a week after Oliver throws him out, he barely knows what to do with it.

It hurts, as he etches _I miss you_ into his thigh, choosing the easiest place to start with.

Nearly a week later, Oliver writes back, his words nearly on top of Connor's own. _I do too._

And, _Why?_

Commitment issues the size of the Grand Canyon, Connor thinks, and says _I'm an idiot_ , the words a permanent reminder on his skin.

 _I know,_ Oliver replies, and then doesn't answer again.

.

A month later, Connor opens the door, expecting a delivery order. He gets Oliver, who's already holding his pizza.

"We ran into each other," Oliver explains, handing him the food.

"I'll pay you back," Connor replies. Leaning against the doorframe, he's loath to let Oliver get away. "Want to come in and share it with me?"

"No," Oliver says, and it hurts more than any scar could. "Um, no, that's not what I meant. I just thought... We tried to be soulmates, and then friends, and... there's not much left for us to try."

"Going straight to nemeses does seem a bit drastic," Connor says, very carefully. God, he knows what he wants Oliver to offer: the same thing Connor has always rejected.

"Shut up, we could date. Slowly. But you can't shut me out again. And you can't say shit about people falling in love with their soulmates when that's what we're doing. And, really, you need a better pizza delivery place, this one's barely warm."

"I agree to everything," Connor says, pulling him inside, his apartment filled with Oliver's presence once again.

Connor wonders just how quickly their slow dating plan will fall apart, the two of them finally finding each other in bed. And, he wonders just how long he can keep Oliver there. Because despite the billions of people in the world, there's only one particular one Connor wants to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
